Current Events

Benaulim Beach, Goa

In reaction to the groans of envy provoked by my last story, “Crowning Glory,” the title has come back to bite me in the ass. Having been invited to a posh Hindu engagement party I decided to get my hair bleached for the occasion. The roots had grown in a couple of centimeters, and I wanted them restored to their (un-natural) platinum blonde color.

Mrs. Bindha, owner of Sowndarya beauty parlor in the village, told me she knew what to do. She mixed the pale blue product expertly, painted it on my head, and asked me to sit still for an hour—exactly the same as my hairdresser, Liz, does up at the Standard in West Hollywood.

She kept checking the color, as Liz does, and when it looked right, she washed it out. Not only did the product wash down the drain but all my hair did too—all but the roots that had turned a hideous yellow and orange and stuck out around my head like I’d been shocked. All my curls are gone. I look like an army recruit with a military buzz cut—or a tabby cat that has been badly shaved.

Another detail sure to assuage any remaining envy: while everyone who comes to India eventually gets sick to their stomach and loses weight, I, my friends, have gained. Not only am I still carrying the two kilos I gained in France, I’ve put on another kilo in India.

So, I’ve gotten fat and lost my hair. Go ahead, gloat.

As the good book says: Vanity, vanity, all is vanity.

The engagement party, a swell affair with 500 guests, was given by a family of rich jewelers; ladies’ baubles were mind-boggling: real diamonds, rubies, emeralds encrusted in soft, pure gold, adorning ears, necks, hair and arms, as were the gorgeous saris of fine silk, richly embroidered, festooned with jewels and beads, a shimmering exotic palette of brilliant colors. Indian women’s clothes are the most beautiful in the world.

Bald, bloated, brazen, I lie on a white beach chair, with a blue cushion and a blue and white striped towel, book in hand, looking across the sand at the sea, listening to waves break softly at the shore. A wide-brimmed sun hat covers my poor, fried head. The barefoot waiter brings a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich which I’ve ordered for lunch; Lalbi, a beach hawker, saunters by with a basket of fruit on her head; she peels and slices up a juicy, sweet pineapple which I’ll enjoy for dessert.

At the next table a group of Russians are eating lunch; one lady is pouring ketchup over her salad, another has brought a loaf of white bread to eat with her plate of chips; the men are slurping down beer and vodka with their platters of grilled lobster. I wonder: how did the poor Russians in Russia get so rich?

Fishermen, who’ve been out all night in their wooden boats, are hauling in their nets with what looks like a great catch; their women wait on the beach with baskets to carry back silvery sardines and mackerel, enough for all to eat and plenty left over to sell at the market. They appear quite happy.

Last night I went to a classical Indian music concert, performed by noted artists from around India, at a Hindu temple on a hilltop in the middle of a grove of banyan-trees. The featured performer was a young solo tabala player, Satyajeet Talwalkar from Mumbai, who stunned a hall full of cognoscenti with his astonishing virtuosity; his fingers flying like hummingbird wings over his drums, his face placid yet glowing with the fire burning within; from time to time a smile broke out revealing his own pleasure.

Tempos shifted and the speed increased to an astonishing pitch to the point where our minds spun out of control, caught up in a swirling ocean of pure sound. It didn’t seem possible he could keep it up, yet he did and went even further. I closed my eyes and felt as though I’d been swept into a storm of notes by a creature that soared and swooped and battered the hell out of me, non-stop, for two hours.

I’ve never heard anything like it. Thinking about it now I can still feel the thrill of Satyajeet’s music pouring from his body and soul through the tips of his fingers and entering into my blood.

I know that Zakir Hussein is considered the greatest tabala player in the world but I can only say, watch out Zakir, Satyajeet is close on your tail.