It is a long drive from the city to the resort, nestled idyllically in the distant outskirts, and I occupy myself with songs on my music player - Chapman to Clapton to The Chiffons. And I eventually doze off, the summer sun beating down on the right side of my face from the untinted window by the side. I don’t know what I’m dreaming about, but it involves a lonely golden desert, a large bird and a candle. There is a certain strangeness about the dream, like exploring the unknown. I open my blinkers and spend the rest of the journey counting the mirages that tease and then disappear with shiny consistency.
By the time the gates of the resort greet us, I’m in a daze. The ride from the reception to the seaside, in the cute little white buggy, wakes me in totality, as it skids and skims through the winding, cobbled pathway. The Vietnamese man next to me announces himself as Ta Phoon Phan, or something like that, and says that the heat is too much, too much. I say, ‘Welcome to Chennai’. Inner voice says, ‘So?’ He gets off the buggy to go to Room No 63 (again, whatever) and I have two minutes of serenity before I reach the seaside restaurant. The thatched roof, sea-breeze engulfed eatery makes me feel glad for the merciless summer. For, as I sit by the side that opens out into the sea, I feel transported to a different time and place. The sea looks beguiling in blue, and the sun beats down merrily on it, creating a fine orchestra of crashing waves and golden silence. I watch as a tall, lumpy white woman comes out of the sea in a yellow bikini, walking and tossing her hair about as though she were Ursula Andress. Amused, I look away and see an old browned Brit talking with a random fisherwoman, who looks like a mean, under-nourished eel. They share a strange rapport- she gestures to him, in an imperious manner too, to buy her a bottle of water and he rushes in and gets her a bottle of Qua (that over-priced brand reserved for the rich and firang). I ponder over the queer nature of their relationship and wonder what they’re up to. But before I can put 6 and 9 together, the sound of a bell makes me turn to my left, from where emerges an ebullient waiter who comes bearing a bell and announcing the dishes and drinks for the day. I choose a tender coconut-based drink and sip on it, biting on the straw in that infuriating way that irritates all my friends, while the sea breeze uses my curls to whip my face in criss-crossing patterns. By now my main course has made its way to my table- tantalizing cuts, fresh veggies tossed in olive oil and spices, and I sit back after several greedy mouthfuls. The tender coconut water caresses my throat and slows down the number of thoughts running in my head from seventeen to three. In the distance, the blue of the water gets purple and the sky gets cottoned with clouds. I feel very glad for the summer again, while I devour a stick of orange ice. I feel like the summer was created just so I can enjoy orange ice, the sensation of sweat beads forming on my nose and feel the humid heat blow-drying my hair a chembata brown. At the other tables, an albino-esque Indian girl (this is what happens when you shun the sun) and her husband (judging by the numerous bangles that encircle the girl’s white arms, they are newly-married) are playing footise and there’s a couple where the lady is laughing so loud, you would imagine the poor fellow sitting opposite her is hard of hearing. But he is quite enjoying the hyper ultrasoncitiy, as it evident from his dopey smile. That must be it; maybe he is stoned. I walk away to the deserted deck which smells of sun-dried wood and seaweed. The sun whispers heated secrets to me skin, even as a pair of uncertain arms wrap around my waist. I am startled at first and want to kick hard, but I don’t. Crows screech above, or maybe they’re eagles, because crows don’t screech. I have this mad urge to screech. And I do. Screech. A light giggle erupts above my head. I giggle too. Had someone started singing like Aretha Franklin, I would’ve too. But no one sings like Aretha Franklin anymore. Aretha Franklin sang like summer dusk and almost as an ode, dusk arrives. The sun is bidding a tangerine farewell. So long, farewell. I take one hand from my shoulder and hold it in my hand, preparing to leave the deck. I turn around. But a table stops me. Not a fancy table. Just a battered oakwood table with a broad chair on its two sides. This table is surely for me. Only I could’ve imagined such a setting to be dreamy. I imagine Heidi and her grandfather ate at exactly this kind of a table high up on the Alps. A table laden with thick, hand-stirred cheese, warm fluffy bread and a steel mug of goat’s milk. Milk so sweet, it is no wonder the dear goats were made to graze on the choicest of herbs and flora high up on the mountains. But that’s their table and I won’t intrude. My table bears a candle at the centre. Not the long-stemmed, perfumed kind. But the kind you hunt for when the lights go out at home. Around it are two wine glasses. One with white, the other with red. No compromise in taste. I like that. He doesn’t pull the chair out for me, he notices I have hands. But he waits for me to sit before doing so himself. We start eating, a wholesome meal. I sniff the air. I smell summer, salt, warm candle wax. I smell a surprise too. It comes. Without drama. A ring. A thin gold band. No stones, no pearls. Just a band. The eyes ask and I put my hands forward towards him. Of course, I do. The band fits snugly on my finger. We continue eating.
Something has changed; it makes my insides feel warm and fuzzy. Maybe it is because in this moment, only the moon, a smattering of stars (that have managed to peek out through the grimy skies) and the sea know our secret. Perhaps that eagle too. Eagles are known to be prophesiers of grand fortunes. A wild breeze rushes towards us, spearing grains of sand into my eyes. I shut my eyes and blame the little teardrop, on the grains lodged in my still-shut eyelids.
By the time the gates of the resort greet us, I’m in a daze. The ride from the reception to the seaside, in the cute little white buggy, wakes me in totality, as it skids and skims through the winding, cobbled pathway. The Vietnamese man next to me announces himself as Ta Phoon Phan, or something like that, and says that the heat is too much, too much. I say, ‘Welcome to Chennai’. Inner voice says, ‘So?’ He gets off the buggy to go to Room No 63 (again, whatever) and I have two minutes of serenity before I reach the seaside restaurant. The thatched roof, sea-breeze engulfed eatery makes me feel glad for the merciless summer. For, as I sit by the side that opens out into the sea, I feel transported to a different time and place. The sea looks beguiling in blue, and the sun beats down merrily on it, creating a fine orchestra of crashing waves and golden silence. I watch as a tall, lumpy white woman comes out of the sea in a yellow bikini, walking and tossing her hair about as though she were Ursula Andress. Amused, I look away and see an old browned Brit talking with a random fisherwoman, who looks like a mean, under-nourished eel. They share a strange rapport- she gestures to him, in an imperious manner too, to buy her a bottle of water and he rushes in and gets her a bottle of Qua (that over-priced brand reserved for the rich and firang). I ponder over the queer nature of their relationship and wonder what they’re up to. But before I can put 6 and 9 together, the sound of a bell makes me turn to my left, from where emerges an ebullient waiter who comes bearing a bell and announcing the dishes and drinks for the day. I choose a tender coconut-based drink and sip on it, biting on the straw in that infuriating way that irritates all my friends, while the sea breeze uses my curls to whip my face in criss-crossing patterns. By now my main course has made its way to my table- tantalizing cuts, fresh veggies tossed in olive oil and spices, and I sit back after several greedy mouthfuls. The tender coconut water caresses my throat and slows down the number of thoughts running in my head from seventeen to three. In the distance, the blue of the water gets purple and the sky gets cottoned with clouds. I feel very glad for the summer again, while I devour a stick of orange ice. I feel like the summer was created just so I can enjoy orange ice, the sensation of sweat beads forming on my nose and feel the humid heat blow-drying my hair a chembata brown. At the other tables, an albino-esque Indian girl (this is what happens when you shun the sun) and her husband (judging by the numerous bangles that encircle the girl’s white arms, they are newly-married) are playing footise and there’s a couple where the lady is laughing so loud, you would imagine the poor fellow sitting opposite her is hard of hearing. But he is quite enjoying the hyper ultrasoncitiy, as it evident from his dopey smile. That must be it; maybe he is stoned. I walk away to the deserted deck which smells of sun-dried wood and seaweed. The sun whispers heated secrets to me skin, even as a pair of uncertain arms wrap around my waist. I am startled at first and want to kick hard, but I don’t. Crows screech above, or maybe they’re eagles, because crows don’t screech. I have this mad urge to screech. And I do. Screech. A light giggle erupts above my head. I giggle too. Had someone started singing like Aretha Franklin, I would’ve too. But no one sings like Aretha Franklin anymore. Aretha Franklin sang like summer dusk and almost as an ode, dusk arrives. The sun is bidding a tangerine farewell. So long, farewell. I take one hand from my shoulder and hold it in my hand, preparing to leave the deck. I turn around. But a table stops me. Not a fancy table. Just a battered oakwood table with a broad chair on its two sides. This table is surely for me. Only I could’ve imagined such a setting to be dreamy. I imagine Heidi and her grandfather ate at exactly this kind of a table high up on the Alps. A table laden with thick, hand-stirred cheese, warm fluffy bread and a steel mug of goat’s milk. Milk so sweet, it is no wonder the dear goats were made to graze on the choicest of herbs and flora high up on the mountains. But that’s their table and I won’t intrude. My table bears a candle at the centre. Not the long-stemmed, perfumed kind. But the kind you hunt for when the lights go out at home. Around it are two wine glasses. One with white, the other with red. No compromise in taste. I like that. He doesn’t pull the chair out for me, he notices I have hands. But he waits for me to sit before doing so himself. We start eating, a wholesome meal. I sniff the air. I smell summer, salt, warm candle wax. I smell a surprise too. It comes. Without drama. A ring. A thin gold band. No stones, no pearls. Just a band. The eyes ask and I put my hands forward towards him. Of course, I do. The band fits snugly on my finger. We continue eating.
Something has changed; it makes my insides feel warm and fuzzy. Maybe it is because in this moment, only the moon, a smattering of stars (that have managed to peek out through the grimy skies) and the sea know our secret. Perhaps that eagle too. Eagles are known to be prophesiers of grand fortunes. A wild breeze rushes towards us, spearing grains of sand into my eyes. I shut my eyes and blame the little teardrop, on the grains lodged in my still-shut eyelids.
