Personal Essay/story of Gokarna

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Hey,

Here is a personal essay/story that I wrote last eyar and have since doctored up. But... I need help on it. I dont think it flows well and I think this is largely because when I first wrote the story I solely intended to tell the story of Raja.

December was my “winter break”; a time to get away from Madurai, to be a normal tourist, to blend in. Five months of living in Madurai, India had tired me out in mind, body and soul. Thus, I decided to take a break from the real India.
My escape was the quaint little tourist village of Gokarna, Karnataka, situated on the south-west coast of India. "Lonely Planet", every traveler's bible, describes the place as "a sleepy, charming town with wooden houses on the main street and traditional houses in nearby alleys." "Rough Guide," all other travelers' holy book states explicitly, "Watch out for the hippies." I thought this to be a funny thing to write in a guide book until I arrived there myself.
In Gokarna the most common hairstyle is dreadlocks. Tie dye and earthy tones are the only clothing colors visible and the bistros lining the beach go by names such Café Munchies and Café Peace. As I ate in a restaurant, I looked up to notice that all of the eyes in the place were glaring at me. In their eyes I was the non-hippie, the Indian culture non-appreciator and, it appeared from their piercing stares, the peace-hater.
Drawn into the sand with a stick one cannot avoid the announcements for rallies against the World Trade Organization and the World Bank, American imperialism and low minimum wages. It truly is every hippie's dream. One can spend their nights in a fancy hotel with internet access and air conditioning while during the day decry the mercenary state of man from the comfort of a tranquil beach in this seemingly quintessential Indian town. In reality however, Gokarna is just like small tourist towns everywhere; they might as well be painted on a curtain, for their perfect countenances and never-ceasing-to-smile faces are a veil that when pulled back show a hidden underbelly.
On my second day in Gokarna I was strolling along the main road when I thought I overheard a conversation in Tamil. Drawn by the unmatched pull of a known language in a foreign land, I strutted excitedly towards the source of the chatter, a family of six selling wares at a little stand. "Yes it is Tamil!" I exclaimed to myself as I drew near. I struck up a conversation immediately and while my excitement was substantial, it was made to look like indifference when compared to the elation of this family to find a fellow Tamil speaker. Not just a Tamil speaker. No! A white foreigner who had the desire (or idiocy, it could be said), to learn their beautiful, impractical language.
Littered across their makeshift table, in truth nothing more than a piece of cloth spread over cardboard, were stones of every imaginable color, smooth bead necklaces and intricately tied bracelets. There were rings, earrings and anklets. Everything was unbelievably ornate but, sidewalk hustlers being the same everywhere, probably all imitations of the advertised products. This family of six, I was to find out, was renting a room in town above their "shop" at 400 rupees per month. To put that figure in perspective, one night in an average hotel costs around 500 rupees. They came to Gokarna every winter, the heavy tourist season, to hawk their wares and save up some money for the rest of the year. As I conversed with the family, over a dozen Tamilians flocked around to see me, the sideshow known as a Tamil Solanda Vellicari (Tamil Speaking White Person.)
It turned out that all the Tamils were part of a large extended family from the outskirts of Chennai. Tea was offered to me at least twice by each person. A woman named Laksmi invited me to visit her stand up the road. One man even offered to let me stay with them that night free of charge. Politely, I declined. After a lively twenty minutes everyone, except for the original family, gradually dispersed back to their own stands, leaving me with that distinct serene feeling one gets after all the guests have left from a successful dinner party.
It quickly surfaced that the leader of the family was the twelve year old son named Raja. He was short and unassuming in appearance like an Ewok, but after looking into his eyes I had the distinct impression that I was in the presence of a superior mind. Whenever a foreigner walked by he jumped to his feet, scurried over to them with an armful of necklaces and, with a mix of faked bashful innocence and charm he would successfully lure the targets to their stand. This may not sound impressive, but when the entire length of the road is lined on both sides with identical stands selling identical items at identical prices, even getting a customer to your stand becomes a feat unto itself. Once he had them in his domain, he used use his perfect English to make the jewels seem irresistible. No talking head on the QVC channel could have sold them more successfully.
After a couple of triumphant sales a dreadlocked British woman in her mid-twenties with the phrase "Treat thy neighbor as thyself" plastered across her chest in bright yellow block letters came up to the stand.
"Oh, not her again," I thought. The cafes lining the beach each contained precious few outside tables facing the Arabian Sea and at dinnertime became hot commodities. The previous night this woman had sat alone at a table meant for six people until closing, refusing to move to a smaller table outside or to a different table inside. Neither the line of people waiting to be seated nor polite requests by the management could unseat her. Instead, this woman sat upright more resolutely than ever, flashing dirty looks towards anyone who had the audacity to meet her gaze.
"I want to buy a sandalwood necklace" she snapped at Raja. Raja quickly went to the table and picked up a rack of necklaces.
"This is pure sandalwood. Smell it" he said as he unclipped the necklace from its position and brought it up to her nose. She inhaled.
"Yes, that does smell exactly like sandalwood."
"And look at this workmanship. You can only make carvings this intricate without cracks if it is 100 percent sandalwood."
"Yes. That is intricate. Perhaps it really is sandalwood. How much is it?" she asked looking skeptical.
"50 rupees," replied Raja.
"What!" she blurted. "If that was real sandalwood it would cost 3000 rupees. I won't be cheated." She then spun away and stalked back towards the center of town from which she came. As soon as she disappeared from sight, Raja scampered frantically down an adjacent back alley that I knew to be a shortcut to town, leaving me befuddled in his wake. A minute went by. Two. Four. I stepped out into the crowded road to peer around the bend, but could see neither the snotty Brit nor Raja. I crossed over to the other side of the road and waited impatiently for his return. Under no circumstances could I leave until my confusion was cleared up. Then, all of a sudden, Raja and Lakshmi appeared from around the bend, giant grins smattered across their faces. As they came closer and I saw 3000 rupees clasped in Raja's hand I finally understood.


I think I need to end on a note that once again returns to the me vs the hippies element. perhaps if I started the piece at the beginning of dailogue with the woman and added other descriptive emelents within the story? it would be better? What do you think? If you are reading this, it is because I respect your opinion and would like critical responses. I know how I feel about this event, but how do you, oh respect reader?

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Comments

[Ms Sam Smale]

You have to chuckle
What do you mean the story doesn't flow well? The style is fine. You can always write another tale with Raja in central position. ( Maybe you do. Haven't read the next blog ) Regarding the dreadlocked Brit. Well. You just have to chuckle don't you. I mean, they go with territory as much as we wish they didn't. Everyone seems to want to be the smartest, hippest, and most goin' on when they clearly are not. My pushy answer to these polite restaurant owners in the future would be to show other people to the table, and force her to share. Might be the beginning of some real feeling and fun from her, or give her something to complain about when she goes home. I'm sure her friends have heard it all before!!

[Philip Porter]

I enjoyed your essay. I was in Gokarna briefly last year and the memories came flooding back. I even bought a necklace from a very friendly Tamil family - maybe the same people. If I had a criticism, it would be that your take on events could come across as a little smug. Your greater understanding of the real India, the effortless way in which you converse with and delight the stallholders, the intolerance of the hippies - I'm not saying these recollections aren't true, but a little more modesty might warm the reader to the story. I also thought it was a bit misleading to suggest that the hippies were quite so dominant. As I remember it, a large proportion of the tourists are Hindus from elsewhere in India visiting because of Gokarna's religious significance.