India - Day 21

There’s something dazzling about feeling like you’re inside the story created by an author or a director. I’m sitting on a daybed, checkered black and red. An old boat, striped blue and white, sits on the shore not far from me. It has a single yellow flag waving. The wind is so steady that the rippling flag stays parallel to the earth. It’s a Nabokov scene I’m in—minus a murder and a nymph.

I’m reading him right now, and he’s not doing it for me. I can’t tell if my attention span is shot or if Pale Fire is too convoluted. He has a habit of doing that. There is a risk you take when you ask the reader to work. The more work they do, the greater the reward—but only if they make it to the end. There is also a huge drop-off of people who attempted your stuff but eventually dismissed you as too tedious or esoteric. With our shriveling attention spans, the creator must acquiesce. The recipient must be spoon-fed.

An old man makes his way across the beach. He says, “Coconut! Coconut!” with a musicality. It’s a simple ad. But in the absence of nonstop stimuli, it is an effective one. When your only competition is the sound of waves and some squawking gulls, “Coconut! Coconut!” pierces the conscience with desire. You can purchase one for 100 rupees, and he’ll hack a hole at the top and hand it over to you. After you drink the sweet slightly tangy reservoir, he’ll come back. He’ll crack it in half and reveal the soft white creamy flesh. Malai, it’s called.

She sits next to me, trying to plan a massage. We eat the malai. “What’s this remind you of?” she asks. She has malai dribbling from her mouth onto her chin. I smirk.

“No idea,” I say.

Maybe minus only the murder.