real life, not books.” She pointed out a card shop. “You go in there. I’m going next door. We’ll meet outside.”
I looked at my watch. Riya wasn’t wearing one. “Wait, it’s only eleven-thirty. We have half an hour.” We didn’t have so many things on our errand list to warrant splitting up. Maybe she wanted to be alone? Some kind of embarrassing purchase? My mind leapt to feminine hygiene or birth control. She looked too innocent for the latter, but in my first semester, I’d learned a thing or two about the “appearance” of innocence. And innocence lost. I was about to remind her I was in college now, a woman of the world, when she laughed again.
“Trust me,” she said. “It’ll take half an hour.”
“For postcards and sweets?”
“You’ll see.”
“But…but…” I raised and lowered myself on my toes with the separation anxiety I had at age seven when my mom dropped me at ballet class. “What if I need a Hindi speaker?”
“Everyone speaks English,” Riya said over her shoulder.
I knew this. Still, I liked having backup. The accents—mine and theirs—could prove tricky.
In the store, I selected a dozen postcards and got in line to pay from my stash of colorful Indian rupees that looked like play money from a board game. With only two people in front of me, I thought I’d be out in a breeze. I didn’t count on them
shooting
the breeze. For ten minutes each. And counting!
I shuffled through my postcards, arranging and rearranging, reading and rereading the blurbs. My foot started tapping on its own. I barely resisted the urge to clear my throat. Not that it would have helped. Neither the owner nor the customers seemed in any rush. I contemplated starting my cards. At this rate, I could put a good dent in the stack before I left the shop.
Dear Jen,
namaste
from the other side of the world. I’m writing this, not out on the beach sipping fresh baby coconut water through a straw as I should be, but standing in a line that’s slower than molasses.
…
I glanced at my watch for the umpteenth time. At a low chuckle behind me, I turned.
It was his smile I noticed first, his twin dimples sweet, boyish, disarming. It was his eyes that lured me. Ink black. Intense. Soulful. In his hands, he held a sketchpad and a set of colored pencils. I guessed his age between mine and Riya’s.
“First time in Goa?” he asked. At my nod, his smile stretched out, deepening the dimples and propping up the apples of his cheeks, so the skin beside his eyes crinkled. “The pace takes some adjustment. A watch serves the same function as a bangle. Ornamental.”
“Yes.” I thought of Riya’s naked wrist. “I’m learning.”
His eyebrows knit together. “You’re…a foreigner?”
I smiled, pleased he hadn’t figured it out until I opened my mouth. “I can dress the part, but the accent gives me away.” We chatted a while. I learned his name was Arsallan, his family was from Bombay, and they usually spent their holidays at a beach or a scenic “hill station.” I gave him the skinny on my family.
“Ah. So you’re type of an Indian export,” he said.
“Type of,” I repeated, amused as always by different usages of the same English language. “Are you an artist?” I gestured to the sketchpad and pencils.
“By profession, no. I’m in medical college. This”—he held up the supplies—“is strictly time-pass. To amuse my nieces and nephews. You can hear them from here….‘
Chachu,
Chachu,
draw me a picture.’ ‘
Chachu, Chachu,
tell us a story.’ ‘
Chachu, Chachu,
let’s fly kites.’”
“How many are there?”
“Twelve.”
“An even dozen.”
“No, more of an
odd
dozen.” He grinned.
Riya entered as I was—finally!—paying for my purchases. I introduced her and Arsallan. “He’s from Bombay, too,” I said. It turned out they had mutual friends at each other’s college. Six degrees of separation and all that.
Arsallan asked if we had plans later that
I looked at my watch. Riya wasn’t wearing one. “Wait, it’s only eleven-thirty. We have half an hour.” We didn’t have so many things on our errand list to warrant splitting up. Maybe she wanted to be alone? Some kind of embarrassing purchase? My mind leapt to feminine hygiene or birth control. She looked too innocent for the latter, but in my first semester, I’d learned a thing or two about the “appearance” of innocence. And innocence lost. I was about to remind her I was in college now, a woman of the world, when she laughed again.
“Trust me,” she said. “It’ll take half an hour.”
“For postcards and sweets?”
“You’ll see.”
“But…but…” I raised and lowered myself on my toes with the separation anxiety I had at age seven when my mom dropped me at ballet class. “What if I need a Hindi speaker?”
“Everyone speaks English,” Riya said over her shoulder.
I knew this. Still, I liked having backup. The accents—mine and theirs—could prove tricky.
In the store, I selected a dozen postcards and got in line to pay from my stash of colorful Indian rupees that looked like play money from a board game. With only two people in front of me, I thought I’d be out in a breeze. I didn’t count on them
shooting
the breeze. For ten minutes each. And counting!
I shuffled through my postcards, arranging and rearranging, reading and rereading the blurbs. My foot started tapping on its own. I barely resisted the urge to clear my throat. Not that it would have helped. Neither the owner nor the customers seemed in any rush. I contemplated starting my cards. At this rate, I could put a good dent in the stack before I left the shop.
Dear Jen,
namaste
from the other side of the world. I’m writing this, not out on the beach sipping fresh baby coconut water through a straw as I should be, but standing in a line that’s slower than molasses.
…
I glanced at my watch for the umpteenth time. At a low chuckle behind me, I turned.
It was his smile I noticed first, his twin dimples sweet, boyish, disarming. It was his eyes that lured me. Ink black. Intense. Soulful. In his hands, he held a sketchpad and a set of colored pencils. I guessed his age between mine and Riya’s.
“First time in Goa?” he asked. At my nod, his smile stretched out, deepening the dimples and propping up the apples of his cheeks, so the skin beside his eyes crinkled. “The pace takes some adjustment. A watch serves the same function as a bangle. Ornamental.”
“Yes.” I thought of Riya’s naked wrist. “I’m learning.”
His eyebrows knit together. “You’re…a foreigner?”
I smiled, pleased he hadn’t figured it out until I opened my mouth. “I can dress the part, but the accent gives me away.” We chatted a while. I learned his name was Arsallan, his family was from Bombay, and they usually spent their holidays at a beach or a scenic “hill station.” I gave him the skinny on my family.
“Ah. So you’re type of an Indian export,” he said.
“Type of,” I repeated, amused as always by different usages of the same English language. “Are you an artist?” I gestured to the sketchpad and pencils.
“By profession, no. I’m in medical college. This”—he held up the supplies—“is strictly time-pass. To amuse my nieces and nephews. You can hear them from here….‘
Chachu,
Chachu,
draw me a picture.’ ‘
Chachu, Chachu,
tell us a story.’ ‘
Chachu, Chachu,
let’s fly kites.’”
“How many are there?”
“Twelve.”
“An even dozen.”
“No, more of an
odd
dozen.” He grinned.
Riya entered as I was—finally!—paying for my purchases. I introduced her and Arsallan. “He’s from Bombay, too,” I said. It turned out they had mutual friends at each other’s college. Six degrees of separation and all that.
Arsallan asked if we had plans later that
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