There are three children from the guesthouse splashing in the water. Girls, somewhere between 6 and 10 years old, having fun in the surf. The parents are on the beach sunbathing. I believe the family is from Germany, they have been at the seafront guesthouse a few days, but we haven't spoken.
A group of Indian men walk along the beach, stopping near the girls. They watch briefly, without much interaction. The group doesn't act decisively but collectively begins to settle on the beach just a few metres down. They take a few selfies, one looks at the girls, they pause for a few minutes. Standing without interacting, unsure, joking, eventually undressing.
They enter the water wearing their white and beige vests, the flag of a poorer background or a smaller town. It's all fun and games, splashing around, shrieking, leaping out of the water and falling backwards. They play a game of climbing on each others shoulders, launching backwards into the water when the balance becomes unsettled.
But I know this is all a show. This is a ritual, some kind of instinctive or considered behaviour. The intra group focus is feigned. Only the occasional glance at the children reveals it. Every foreign woman who has been swimming here knows where this is going. Most Indian women know exactly where this is going. The long stay residents know exactly where is this going. The Indian guesthouse staff know exactly where this is going. I know exactly where this is going, and so I stand, staring straight at the group from the beach. Unmoving, direct. My gaze might prevent the entire thing without disturbing the girls.
It doesn't, and so over the course of 10 minutes I watch it progress. The group, splashing and playing, inch down the beach. By general drift and accident they end up exactly seaward of the girls. One of the group separates slightly, and happens to drift backwards, towards the girls. Facing the group the whole time, with full accidentiality, he continues to progress backwards, inshore, towards the girls. Here his accidental progress becomes somewhat difficult, it's only about 50cm deep. He resorts to the common play of leaping up with each breaking wave and falling over backwards into the surf. He makes surprising progress, in two accidental falls he reaches the girls. But with his hand outstretched he has gone too far, and falls the other side of the closest girl. I step in and instruct the Indian group to move along with a single gesture down the beach.
The parents, either through confidence or careful balance of parenting, never move from the beach. We never interact. But there is no doubt what would have happened. What has happened, and what has brought the guesthouse staff down onto the beach with bamboo, machetes and homemade weapons in past years.
A group of Indian men walk along the beach, stopping near the girls. They watch briefly, without much interaction. The group doesn't act decisively but collectively begins to settle on the beach just a few metres down. They take a few selfies, one looks at the girls, they pause for a few minutes. Standing without interacting, unsure, joking, eventually undressing.
They enter the water wearing their white and beige vests, the flag of a poorer background or a smaller town. It's all fun and games, splashing around, shrieking, leaping out of the water and falling backwards. They play a game of climbing on each others shoulders, launching backwards into the water when the balance becomes unsettled.
But I know this is all a show. This is a ritual, some kind of instinctive or considered behaviour. The intra group focus is feigned. Only the occasional glance at the children reveals it. Every foreign woman who has been swimming here knows where this is going. Most Indian women know exactly where this is going. The long stay residents know exactly where is this going. The Indian guesthouse staff know exactly where this is going. I know exactly where this is going, and so I stand, staring straight at the group from the beach. Unmoving, direct. My gaze might prevent the entire thing without disturbing the girls.
It doesn't, and so over the course of 10 minutes I watch it progress. The group, splashing and playing, inch down the beach. By general drift and accident they end up exactly seaward of the girls. One of the group separates slightly, and happens to drift backwards, towards the girls. Facing the group the whole time, with full accidentiality, he continues to progress backwards, inshore, towards the girls. Here his accidental progress becomes somewhat difficult, it's only about 50cm deep. He resorts to the common play of leaping up with each breaking wave and falling over backwards into the surf. He makes surprising progress, in two accidental falls he reaches the girls. But with his hand outstretched he has gone too far, and falls the other side of the closest girl. I step in and instruct the Indian group to move along with a single gesture down the beach.
The parents, either through confidence or careful balance of parenting, never move from the beach. We never interact. But there is no doubt what would have happened. What has happened, and what has brought the guesthouse staff down onto the beach with bamboo, machetes and homemade weapons in past years.
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