.13
The beginning of a Romantic novel: A British child of the Orient with beautiful parents soaked in sherry. The father is drunk and has a thick black mustache. The mother is a willow-of-the-wisp. She wears perfumes and chiffon. The daughter plays with monkeys and hangs from trees barefoot in sky-blue dresses so short they barely cover her underwear. She plays with the servants, of course.
She is born in India.
So, she is wild and well bred.
Her parents never see her—just the chef, the butler and the governess. The chef and the butler wear turbans and are fond of her scampering. They make a scavenger of her—hiding coconut treats in deep pockets that she digs her little hands in. She is transported on their shoulders. Little Sahib. The governess has a Mary Poppins type jacket and skirt and lace-up shoes without all the sugar and songs. Like an Anne Sullivan—taming her unruly Helen.
She had never been to Asia. He was sure of that. She was the kind of woman who dreamed about it. Whose flirtations with British girl literature had aroused not only her curiosity of the world but had propped her burgeoning puberty. She counted herself among the Sara Crewes of the world—beloved by dark men who spoke in accents and on whose sadness her empathy could connect to a foreign place.
Where was this photograph taken? Her girl child on a slide in front of a pink house in front of a cliff—a mountainside? In that red-flower bikini. Missee Sahib was happy.
She is born in India.
So, she is wild and well bred.
Her parents never see her—just the chef, the butler and the governess. The chef and the butler wear turbans and are fond of her scampering. They make a scavenger of her—hiding coconut treats in deep pockets that she digs her little hands in. She is transported on their shoulders. Little Sahib. The governess has a Mary Poppins type jacket and skirt and lace-up shoes without all the sugar and songs. Like an Anne Sullivan—taming her unruly Helen.
She had never been to Asia. He was sure of that. She was the kind of woman who dreamed about it. Whose flirtations with British girl literature had aroused not only her curiosity of the world but had propped her burgeoning puberty. She counted herself among the Sara Crewes of the world—beloved by dark men who spoke in accents and on whose sadness her empathy could connect to a foreign place.
Where was this photograph taken? Her girl child on a slide in front of a pink house in front of a cliff—a mountainside? In that red-flower bikini. Missee Sahib was happy.
posted by neotropic at 1:04 PM
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