Readers Write In #847: And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

By Samyogita Hardikar

“… Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea.”

I still remember the first time I read those lines. It was exactly at that moment that I realised that poetry can transport you to anywhere you want. You could be sweltering in a hot Nagpur summer, and just a few drops of ink on paper can pick you up and drop you off where there are “gardens bright with sinuous rills”, and “forests as ancient as the hills”, to paradise itself. I was thirteen then. I’m definitely not thirteen today, but here I am, actually looking at it. The twice five miles of fertile ground, the incense-bearing trees, the mindboggling architecture of the mythic “pleasure-dome” that seems simultaneously to be a part of, and stand apart from, the stunning views of this place.

“That sunny dome, those caves of ice” – it’s all actually here.

_{Art by the author, using chatGPT}

Must admit, the crowds were a surprise. But I guess that’s on me. We’re in Xanadu after all. What did I expect? The usual cool-rule of looking down on selfie-stick wielding Chinese tourists doesn’t apply here. In fact, us Coleridge fans (well, just me and a few dozen brits of the palest, most middle-aged variety) must seem like the uncool ones here. We’re here just because of the poem, not the actual city. So much worse than not the book, just the movie!

But it’s hard to care about earthly ideas of cool and uncool when you’re in your own personal heaven. I could stay here forever. Maybe I will. Maybe I already have. It’s so hard to tell when every second feels like an eternity, and even an eternity doesn’t seem like long enough.

“Sister! My beautiful! Blessing for you!”, I’m startled out of my reverie by a multi-sensory assault. A heady perfume, a loud voice, a set of teeth taking up most of my visual field, and a death-grip on my right wrist.

Shit! How many times have I fallen for this. Never go to a “sight” let your eyes gloss over with wonder. That’s exactly when they pounce on you. I try to smile and get away. But he’s already tied a bracelet around my wrist.

“No, no.”, I try to take it off and slip away.

But he won’t have it. “Take it sister. It’s a blessing.” 

“No, it’s okay. I don’t want it.”, I’m all fake smile and big gestures by now.

“My grandma make it, sister. It’s for you. You have it now. You keep it.”

The bracelet won’t come off. The man won’t leave. People around us are practically walking through us, making sure not to make eye contact with the vendor. Damn it! DAMN it!

“This good for you. It’s Greek. My family make it at home. It going to make you strong and happy. Bless you with children. Good husband.”

Yeah, right.

“No, no. I really don’t want it. Please take it off.”, I protest.  But I know it’s not coming off. I look at the bracelet. It doesn’t even look that great. “Look,” I say, “It has a black stain.”

“Oh, you have good eyes, beautiful. Beautiful eyes see everything. It’s not stain, sister. It’s how it comes. They all good. It’s not like before times. Now we get all good material. Only good things for my beautiful. You take one.”

“No. I really don’t want this.”

“You take it. It’s yours.” He’s not budging. My neck is starting to get itchy.

“Fine, at least show me another. This has a stain.”

“Okay, sister. Only for you. Look.”, he holds out a very feminine, delicate bracelet of red-and-green. “This is in Italy. It bring very good health. Very good wealth. ”  

The beads are shiny alright. But the green thread looks pretty thin.

“And?”, I ask.

“And big house. So many cars.”,  he says.

“Forget that. Tell me what’s wrong with it.”

“Nothing wrong sister. You think I lie to you? All good material.” 

“Look, I know you’re not letting me go without taking one. So just tell me honestly. Don’t just keep repeating all the good stuff. What does this one have?”

“Okay, okay, sister. I tell you. You decide. This one has long life. So rich. Strong lady. But your husband not treat you nice. Not good man. You take the Greek one. Greek one is better for you. You are very poor. But good husband, good children.”

“What’s the black stain?”, I ask.

“Nothing sister. Stain is so small. Your mother die when you are little girl. You cry a lot. But it’s okay. You forget everything. You healthy. Only six years you are sick in old age. Good life.”

“What’s this one?”

“That one is boy. 50 years. Many friends. You sing like angel. But you take white powder. White powder kill you.”  

We stand there and go through almost his entire tray. Good health and bad parents. Good parents and awful children. Immeasurable talent and no success or money. Lots of travel and three divorces. Health, money, wife, children, but you’re a psychopath. By now I don’t even know what I’m looking for.

I doubt the sun even actually sets in this place, but the golden sunshine of just a few moments ago is now slowly being replaced by a purplish haze, and there’s a slight chill in the air.  As always, having gone through the entire collection, I feel silly for ever having thought that there IS a choice to make in the first place or that it even matters. Not like I will remember any of this down there. So finally I just decide to stick with the Greek one that’s already tightly locked around my wrist.

“Good choice, sister! Very good choice!”, he keeps repeating like a demented parrot, as he neatly puts all the other bracelets back in their original place.

“It’s not exactly a choice”, I grumble. But he’s barely listening.

“You go now, sister, ok? You go. You go 90 years.”

I sigh.

“Very good choice!”, he yells one last time over his shoulder before diving right back into the crowd, looking for the next sucker to dupe, no doubt.

So that’s it. “Holiday” over. Back to the grind, for 90 years this time. I turn around to take one last look at Xanadu, but it’s already gone.