A Very Special Entry: Revenge of the Native
(Chitty and I spent the last days of February in a remote village on the Arabian Sea, in her home state of Karnataka. It was a perfect beach vacation, as evidenced by the fact that I came home with clean underwear. We spent our days in pajamas and bathing suits, honing our Sudoku skills, spooning pearly meat from just-picked coconuts and … well, that’s about it. I thought I’d let her tell it. What follows is this blog’s first guest entry.)
Perhaps it was the auto rickshaw driver who delivered ice cream, fruit juice and other emergency supplies. Perhaps it was the personal cooks who served tender-coconut water as I struggled to capture that perfect shot of palm trees, empty beach and my feet. Maybe it was the thrill of dodging suicidal fish when we ventured out for our late-afternoon dips.
It's hard to pinpoint what made that week so special.
No tourists, no hawkers. No one lurking with a camera when the hammocks dropped us on our asses.
It was a week at an uncle's beachside house two kilometers from Kota, a village near Udupi, a town outside ... well, this could take a while. Suffice to say, we were at a beach near Kota, whose only claim to fame is a Kannada novelist and playwright it produced two generations ago.
Until we came to town.
The hordes of giggling children who discovered Anna as she made her way down the beach to the fisher-folk sorting through the early morning catch will probably struggle, decades from now, for words to describe the vision of her.
That was the only time we ventured away from the house in our seven days there.
Yes, I was with her on that trip to buy the fish, with our Man Friday, Rehman, trailing 20 paces behind. The children of Kota may never remember me, or Rehman, who stepped up to rescue us when it was time to haggle. But that tunnel vision is a common problem here, as Anna's earlier trips have shown. I can’t tell you the number of times I've been ruthlessly edged out of camera frames and elbowed out of the way as my countrymen clamored to ask Anna that burning question: “Which country?'”
Perhaps that's really why this vacation will always be memorable. You see, there was this one sweet, brief, fleeting moment – The Revenge of the Native – when the housekeepers, done with their morning chores, sidled up to me as I sat wrestling with yet another Sudoku. They were staring, befuddled, at Anna, as they were wont to do.
“Her hair, is it always that color? It'd be so pretty ... if only it was black.''
Perhaps it was the auto rickshaw driver who delivered ice cream, fruit juice and other emergency supplies. Perhaps it was the personal cooks who served tender-coconut water as I struggled to capture that perfect shot of palm trees, empty beach and my feet. Maybe it was the thrill of dodging suicidal fish when we ventured out for our late-afternoon dips.
It's hard to pinpoint what made that week so special.
No tourists, no hawkers. No one lurking with a camera when the hammocks dropped us on our asses.
It was a week at an uncle's beachside house two kilometers from Kota, a village near Udupi, a town outside ... well, this could take a while. Suffice to say, we were at a beach near Kota, whose only claim to fame is a Kannada novelist and playwright it produced two generations ago.
Until we came to town.
The hordes of giggling children who discovered Anna as she made her way down the beach to the fisher-folk sorting through the early morning catch will probably struggle, decades from now, for words to describe the vision of her.
That was the only time we ventured away from the house in our seven days there.
Yes, I was with her on that trip to buy the fish, with our Man Friday, Rehman, trailing 20 paces behind. The children of Kota may never remember me, or Rehman, who stepped up to rescue us when it was time to haggle. But that tunnel vision is a common problem here, as Anna's earlier trips have shown. I can’t tell you the number of times I've been ruthlessly edged out of camera frames and elbowed out of the way as my countrymen clamored to ask Anna that burning question: “Which country?'”
Perhaps that's really why this vacation will always be memorable. You see, there was this one sweet, brief, fleeting moment – The Revenge of the Native – when the housekeepers, done with their morning chores, sidled up to me as I sat wrestling with yet another Sudoku. They were staring, befuddled, at Anna, as they were wont to do.
“Her hair, is it always that color? It'd be so pretty ... if only it was black.''
Chitty: 1 Hammock: 7 
Anna's fan club
coconut cutter
Anyone for a drink?
posted by Badass at 1:58 PM
5 Comments:
Yeah! I love guest bloggers, lol. I am laughing so hard right now...gotta love backhanded compliments. Love, AJ
double the laughter - i can't stop! thanks, chitra, for the writing and thanks to anna for being born with that beautiful hair!
Actually, Michelle, I was born bald. I didn't have hair until well after my first birthday. Guess my mom's applications of mayonnaise and other folk remedies worked!
Hee hee! That means I have one up on you, since my hair is (almost) black. Give or take the grey.
Wow!! I love this entry!! The ending was great, I've been quoting it to Anna already! Thanks for gracing us with your point of view, it's neat to see Anna as seen by others in this place where she obviously stands out. and while she writes about it, it was so neat to also see your perspective, as friend, confidante, and of course, observer of everyone's behavior toward her. I have the image of the hammock and the fishermen imprinted on my brain now! hugs, ioana
Post a Comment
<< Home