Spoilsport



Photograph on canvas, crochet on found shell, crochet on canvas. Art work of Gopika Nath, 2018

Saturday’s are my cooking days. Simona comes in on Friday to cut and chop whatever is needed and then comes again on Saturday to help clean up – to wash the dishes and sweep and swab the flat.  I had cooked Mughlai chicken Biryani and Kadhai paneer with aloo ka raita, which I had for lunch  and we were just wrapping up. I was putting on my shoes, in readiness for a walk to the beach, when the door-bell rang.

 

A tall, young man, not dark nor fair, but I could tell from his accent that he was Indian, stood at the door, when I opened it. Hovering behind him, with a rather pasty, apologetic smile on her face, was a tall, thin, fair-skinned woman in a skimpy, lacy, red dress. Without preamble, he asked if he could borrow a hand beater. Gesticulating with his hands, as if to explain what it does. And the woman nodded and pressed her hands together in an odd sort of gesture that I couldn’t fathom, but on hindsight can put down to nervous pleading, perhaps. But, imagine this, I am expected to own a hand-beater, yet not know how it works. Did I look imbecilic or maybe senile?

 

Now, a hand-beater is a relatively inexpensive thing and not something that I would ordinarily have thought twice about lending a neighbour, but they were not my neighbours.

 

Riviera Sapphire is occupied mostly by short term rentals. It is fashionable these days to have holiday homes in Goa and rent them out through Airbnb and other on-line channels. So every day I see new faces. Most of the time I don’t engage with them. A lot of the time I don’t even know who has come and gone, I just know that there are plenty of strangers around me. And this couple, who rang my door-bell asking to borrow my hand-beater, were part of this gang of guests that inhabit the apartments and villas in my complex. Of the eight-eight dwellings at Sapphire, I know only three or four of the owners. A couple of apartments are on long leases and I am getting better acquainted with the tenants Ashish and Ruchir. They are much younger but indulgent and we go on walks together, occasionally. Technically, I am the only long-term resident here and the rest are just visitors  or part-time, holidaying inhabitants.

 

After I shut the door, saying “no, I don’t have one” and that too without batting an eyelid or needing to think about it, I was disturbed. Simona was in the bedroom putting the dhurries into place and I narrated the conversation to her, saying he didn’t bother to introduce himself, he didn’t tell me his name, given me any point of reference, so I just said no!

 

The incident came up during my walk with Ruchir, the same evening, as we strolled down Morjhim beach. I was collecting shells and stones. Stopping and stooping to pick and then running towards the water to wash off the excess mud. He is a marathon runner and it must have been excruciating for him to walk at that pace, but he was tolerant and generous. As I gathered stone after stone, seeing the accumulating weight of them, he even offered to carry the bag for me, while I rummaged through the earth. The context this incident of the hand-beater came up in, was with regard to being comfortable with oneself, even when saying no to someone.

 

I had said no. I had done so without hesitation. But, in  truth I wasn’t entirely comfortable with what I had done, was I? Because Ruchir agreed with me and so did Simona, I didn’t need to question my stance but it is coming back to haunt me. It is a part of me that I am relatively unfamiliar with. Was I uncharitable? Do I have attachment to my possessions, what made me tell a lie to his face and not even think before saying no. What was happening to me. I was perturbed. The niggle is primarily because I would like to understand why I did what I did, not because I am re-thinking what I did. And when Simona came on Monday, she brought it up saying she had narrated the incident to her husband who had wanted to know if I gave or not and was relieved when informed, that I had not. There was clearly some similarity in Goan village values and my own. However, the deeper issue is that what are these ideals that were not met. Was it really just because he didn’t introduce himself, didn’t explore social niceties and asked for what he needed outright, without preamble. While it was prefaced with a request to borrow, it was done with a sense of entitlement which also irritated me.

 

I have been persuaded to give strangers a lift on the street – because the woman was in pain and couldn’t wait any longer for the bus. I met Simona while walking in the neighbourhood and brought her into my home to work for me, without any reference or introductions whatsoever. I’d met Mashtari, my earlier maid, on the jetty from Betim to Panjim and on learning that her daughter was mute and mentally retarded, instantly gave her a small monthly stipend that continues to this day, even though, because of the distance, she can no longer work for me. Within this backdrop, it  does strike me as odd that I chose to play spoil-sport here.

 

If he had given me the story of his life, standing at the threshold to my apartment, would that really have made a difference? After all they would still be strangers and for all I know he could he telling me a bunch of lies. So, what did I pick up intuitively that bid me refuse their request – a very harmless one at that. Was it just that he didn’t even try to make perfunctory acquaintance and I felt I was being used?

They were a young couple and Goa is a popular honeymoon destination. Living in an apartment instead of staying at a hotel where all their food and beverage needs are just an intercom buzz away, they were probably playing house-house and needed to blend something for optimum results. I had played spoiler but, was I going to open my door to every stranger and give them what they wanted, just because it was a harmless request. And then, what would have been an alarming one?

 

After all, isn’t this what we knock on  neighbour’s houses for: to ask for something small and benign such as a hand-beater, some sugar or jamun to make curd. But, they were not my neighbours. Just strangers masquerading as some. It didn’t make any sense for me to play along and I didn’t.