“Have you ever walked to Pondi?”
“Walked?” I scoffed. “It’s too far.”
“8km.”
Oh. “That is walkable.”
“I wonder how long it would take.”
I looked at him with mischief in my eyes. “Want to find out?”
He smiled.
And thus Raphael and I started our journey from Auroville’s Quiet beach. We carried our flip-flops over the sand, dodging bits of trash and torn plastic. It smelled of sea, of salt, of dead fish. We spoke of Auroville and the ashram and philosophy. We wondered about youth and age and business and life. We passed a half hour wading in the water.
Over the first dune we discovered a cement fisherman’s village just feet from the bay. In the tumultuous shallows I saw something I’d never seen before: Indian women swimming in saris, next to brothers or boyfriends or friends. They invited us to come play.
I wobbled my head and smiled, but didn’t go.
Over the next dune we realized the walk along the beach would be difficult, so we cut towards the highway, cutting through a larger village. There was a kolam on the sidewalk Raphael loved, and he insisted on stopping to take a picture—with the woman’s permission, of course. The women of the house gathered to watch him and his camera, and with no shared language, I spoke with them as best as I could. Before long we are all laughing hysterically, each woman for a different reason. Perfect. Then they invited us in for tea.
I wobbled my head and smiled, but we moved on.
The cement streets of the village faded to dirt until we were wading through brush paths lined by collapsing shanties. Around one, miraculously, there were men gathered for tea.
“You want a chai?” Raphael asked.
“Of course!”
We took tea while the children gathered around to practice English. “Hi!” “How are you!” “What’s your name!” Words they shout but don’t understand. After we finished our tiny cups, an old man invited us in Tamil to sit with him.
I wobbled my head and smiled, but we had a party to get to.
The dirt path transformed again to cement, and we found ourselves in the houses behind the highway. On one of the back doorsteps sat four women sewing flowers, and I paused to admire their work. I smelled the strings of tiny buds and smiled, and we spoke without sharing a single common word. As I turned to leave, one hollered and quickly laced a string through my tangled knot of golden curls.
I wobbled my head and smiled, and we continued on our way.
On the highway there was a rickshaw waiting. But Raphael and I looked at each other and smiled. We were at the bus stand. For 3 rupees, we took an overcrowded and stomach-turning trip to the heart of Pondi, where we dismounted to walk through the stifling market to the quiet apartment of Guy and Françoise.
It was their last night and Guy’s birthday, and guests were arriving in 10 minutes. Champagne and cake awaited. Then with fancy clothes and flowers in my hair, I found myself wobbling my head and smiling with French diplomats and ashram teachers.
This time I didn’t walk away.
The perfect passage of lingering, dwindling moments.
No comments:
Post a Comment