healing kisses

“I don’t WANNA go to the beach!” I’d cry. “I have a cut on my hand and it hurts in the water!”

“It stings? That means it’s healing,” Mama would say. “Salt water is good for cuts and bruises. That’s what my mom always told me.” A list of other painful things that are good for cuts and bruises includes: alcohol wipes, antibacterial soap, hydrogen peroxide, and, contrary to popular belief, kisses during lacrosse season.

***

I was in the zone. I had a project and I could think of nothing else until I’d seen it through. The task? A 63-square-foot sandcastle with a moat, a huge palace in the middle that stood 3 feet high, sunken roads and a crowded village full of houses with shell roofing, pillars, wells, and rooftop gardens. The only way in was over a driftwood drawbridge that led down a set of steps into the village. We worked from noon to dusk, building and repairing cave-ins with coconut shells, rusty metal pipes and sand toys donated by onlookers. A European man asked his guide if it was Jaisalmer; Thomas dubbed it Mussel Valley. I thought of it as my very own Roxaboxen. There has been nothing like it in the history of the world – though, even if there had, there would be no lingering evidence to prove it.

The night wore on and we watched with bated breath as the tide came in. We stood and watched the first waves fill the moat, and sometime around midnight my dad and my brother watched the high tide erase every last trace of the day’s efforts. In the morning there was nothing to show for our sunburnt backs, aching thigh muscles and raw fingertips. Displaced crabs and oysters had already settled back into their underground homes. It was like watching history happen in fast forward, watching time wear away the desperate exertions of human civilization. From high tide to high tide, we came, we conquered, we left and were replaced by sand too smooth to have ever been a castle.

***

Kenyon and I walked up the beach to look for lunch and parasailing. We met hordes of people who tried to sell us their wares – first engaging us in conversation, asking where we are from and how long we are staying in Goa. One guy jogged up beside me and asked, “Are you my friend?” Taken aback, I exclaimed, “No!” It was his turn to look surprised. “No?! Why not?” “I don’t even know you!” I replied. “But you’re talking to me,” he said. The concept of friendship, at least for a second, blurred around the edges and I wondered if anyone ever answers him yes.

The hawkers assumed that we are English. “You are very white,” they told us. Laughing, I pointed out Kenyon’s hot pink sunburn. “She's pink!” They charged us English prices, which are considerably less than Russian prices (or so they say) but still considerably higher than they should be. When we turned them down to continue on our course toward lunch, they made us to promise to stop on our way back. I hesitated just long enough for Kenyon to shake on it. On our way back we devised elaborate schemes to avoid them, but they caught on to our detours and disguises and accused us of not keeping our promises. We learned quickly to only make a promise if we really mean it.

In Spanish, the word for “engagement” is the same as the word for “compromise.” I wonder if someone’s trying to tell us something…

***

All the Colva Beach dogs are neutered; Mutti says it was a genius investment for some rich businessman. On the road to Colva town one billboard encourages HIV testing for engaged couples. And Thom says nobody dies of malaria anymore (although that’s not to say it doesn’t cause a lot of misery in life – leave it to my cousin Maya to figure that out first-hand).

South India is famous for, among other things, its ancient ayurvedic healing practices. In one Ayurveda shop I found enriching eyeliner made with almond oil and a hangover prevention pill. (Both would have cost me about $6.50.) In the backwaters every plant, fruit and spice has a purpose – some leaves, when chewed or steeped as tea, combat upset stomach, respiratory issues, heat exhaustion, and any number of other ailments from the everyday variety to the life-threatening. And Kerala, specifically, is famous for massages, healing programs, and a traditional martial arts form called Kalarippayat. Taken patiently over a certain time span, all of these methods improve mental, physical and emotional health exponentially. The key is moderation and self-discipline… and faith.

When I get tan I can see the scar on the inside of my elbow where the dog bit me through the fence when I was three. His snarling black jaws permanently damaged my favorite sweater and my regard for the canine species, but the actual white scar only shows up in the sun’s rays. Other things that appear in the sun are some freckles on my cheeks; a glow in my skin and a sort of peace that comes out in a smile. In the pallid middle of winter I look for that scar but I can never see it.

The sea, despite my childhood complaints, does heal my cuts and hangnails, my calloused heels and unenthusiastic hair. It exfoliates and polishes my skin on the outside, kneads out the knots in my weary muscles and flushes away my anxiety. It reminds me how to breathe and how to walk and sit and sleep in that cosmic rhythm well-known to the ayurvedic masters, and it reminds me to listen and to have faith. Scars make us interesting once we let them wear down to a tight white spot that only appears when we squint in the sun.