Serita, I say your sari is beautiful,

Serita, I say your sari is beautiful and you throw your eyes to the sky, laugh, push my shoulder ' but it is a beautiful turquoise; fades of coral and frayed golden threads snag the fiery sand. Spread out on Gujarati cloth, are end of season hometown wares: spiral shells and stories, t-shirts and tales. You flick antique beads of tiger-eye around my neck, call me friend and take my hand. It fits, so.

Your jewels filigree towards me and we speak of craft; of gems; gold, metal, women and men; of the silver clasps, loops and rings, stamped by authority at home. 'Is he a good man?' I ask, and you say softly, yes. For a moment, your almond eyes have the ocean in them, the fiery sand, and when you turn to me, I can see the green flecks of your back home mountain land. You are feline, elegant, and delicate, and a survivor of lives, an astute businesswoman sat in her beautiful rags.

The shade has moved away from us. We spin the creaky palm umbrella, and a sand-sleepy tanned cow turns and yawns. "No people again today, nothing. Only families of skinny cows, and they don't want my jewels! I try to smile, and for a second, I cannot imagine you bullied by anything, except nature. You need to buy pills for your Angina, and the worry in your eye is a secret.

I feel the tourist appear in mine and look down, but you see it. "For a traveller who frowns; this tiger-eye is old antique; worn bead for Shiva, and good. You will see what you will do, and me the same. She turns a bead. It is quiet here, together. Tonight there is a fire on the beach, and tomorrow, I catch my plane. I turn a bead. "Yes, turn the bead, like that. she says, smiling.