Vasu, not Vasu of the clown-sized camo shoes. Even in the space of a few hours, I thought I’d come to know him. Had he been playing to the camera? Or had I cast him as the sweet, clumsy native before he’d even opened his mouth?
The jeep trundled us homeward in the late afternoon. The moon made an early cameo, a translucent scoop of vanilla melting into the blue. Ravi had mellowed toward me, and riding beside him, I almost forgot about Teddy in the backseat, wearing that satedlook he always got at the end of a good day. Ravi steered with one hand, pointing out the cotton silk trees, the sals, the white pines, and the occasional aanjili, guarded by thuggish monkeys.
We came to idle behind an open lorry, four boys crammed in the back, heels bopping against the bumper. Three of them were chatting; the fourth was distracted by a silky seed floating past. I thought of that Helen Levitt photograph: four girls walking down a street, distracted by passing soap bubbles. Helen Levitt had been twenty-five, around my age, when she bought a Leica. She fit a winkelsucher to her camera, a device that let her point herself in one direction while the photo snapped from the side, so the subject was oblivious to being photographed.
I have almost no photos of our time in India. I told myself I didn’t want to be
that
tourist, snapping exotica for the benefit of friends back home, who’d get bored after flipping through a dozen or so. Teddy and I saw our India only in terms of the film, admittedly a narrow lens. We made up for our insecurities by being dogged in purpose: to get everything we could, and get it right.
And yet there were unexpected moments I still wish I could have captured somehow, in a medium more lasting than memory. Like the boy in the lorry, reaching for the silk seed. Or Ravi reaching over the gearshift and squeezing my hand, before Teddy could see.
For dinner, Ravi took us to his favorite restaurant, Y2K, a cryptic name belied by perky flower settings and plastic gingham tablecloths. Our server brought three “home-style meals”—a hillock of rice accessorized with various stews and curries—anddiplomatically set spoons beside two of the plates. Ravi ate with nimble fingers that never seemed to still, always tossing or crushing or rounding up a bite, leaving little room for talk.
We were halfway into the meal when Teddy said, “Okay, Em, fess up.” My stomach dropped, knowing where he was headed. I’d forgotten to warn him, neglected to explain. Now my signals—beseeching eyes, rigid head shake—were all too late. “Where’d you get that stuff about Shankar Timber?”
Ravi’s head snapped up.
Slowly I spooned more pickle onto my plate. “I don’t remember.”
“You asked her about Shankar Timber?” Ravi said.
Teddy turned to Ravi. “Have you heard about this? There’s a village called, what was it—”
“Manaloor,” Ravi said.
“Right. Anyway, the discussion got pretty tense, but Emma didn’t back down. She’s an excellent interviewer, way better than me.”
I shook my head at Teddy. “He doesn’t wanna hear this.”
“What makes her so excellent?” Ravi asked. A brittle note had entered his voice.
“Well, generally speaking, people tend to spill their guts around her.”
“Jesus, Teddy, you’re making me sound like an operator.”
“She’s a master of the pregnant pause, for example. People always feel the need to fill a silence, so they end up saying more than they mean to. And there’s this other tactic: at the end of an interview, she usually goes,
Is there anything else you think I should know?
”
“It’s an honest question,” I said.
“It’s all in the tone—like,
Hey, you can trust me.
But also,
I know there’s something you’re not telling me.
”
“So she manipulates people,” Ravi said.
Teddy shrugged. “All film is manipulated to some degree. It’s a way of cutting closer to the truth.”
“Yes, well. Too close and you get a girl cutting her
The jeep trundled us homeward in the late afternoon. The moon made an early cameo, a translucent scoop of vanilla melting into the blue. Ravi had mellowed toward me, and riding beside him, I almost forgot about Teddy in the backseat, wearing that satedlook he always got at the end of a good day. Ravi steered with one hand, pointing out the cotton silk trees, the sals, the white pines, and the occasional aanjili, guarded by thuggish monkeys.
We came to idle behind an open lorry, four boys crammed in the back, heels bopping against the bumper. Three of them were chatting; the fourth was distracted by a silky seed floating past. I thought of that Helen Levitt photograph: four girls walking down a street, distracted by passing soap bubbles. Helen Levitt had been twenty-five, around my age, when she bought a Leica. She fit a winkelsucher to her camera, a device that let her point herself in one direction while the photo snapped from the side, so the subject was oblivious to being photographed.
I have almost no photos of our time in India. I told myself I didn’t want to be
that
tourist, snapping exotica for the benefit of friends back home, who’d get bored after flipping through a dozen or so. Teddy and I saw our India only in terms of the film, admittedly a narrow lens. We made up for our insecurities by being dogged in purpose: to get everything we could, and get it right.
And yet there were unexpected moments I still wish I could have captured somehow, in a medium more lasting than memory. Like the boy in the lorry, reaching for the silk seed. Or Ravi reaching over the gearshift and squeezing my hand, before Teddy could see.
For dinner, Ravi took us to his favorite restaurant, Y2K, a cryptic name belied by perky flower settings and plastic gingham tablecloths. Our server brought three “home-style meals”—a hillock of rice accessorized with various stews and curries—anddiplomatically set spoons beside two of the plates. Ravi ate with nimble fingers that never seemed to still, always tossing or crushing or rounding up a bite, leaving little room for talk.
We were halfway into the meal when Teddy said, “Okay, Em, fess up.” My stomach dropped, knowing where he was headed. I’d forgotten to warn him, neglected to explain. Now my signals—beseeching eyes, rigid head shake—were all too late. “Where’d you get that stuff about Shankar Timber?”
Ravi’s head snapped up.
Slowly I spooned more pickle onto my plate. “I don’t remember.”
“You asked her about Shankar Timber?” Ravi said.
Teddy turned to Ravi. “Have you heard about this? There’s a village called, what was it—”
“Manaloor,” Ravi said.
“Right. Anyway, the discussion got pretty tense, but Emma didn’t back down. She’s an excellent interviewer, way better than me.”
I shook my head at Teddy. “He doesn’t wanna hear this.”
“What makes her so excellent?” Ravi asked. A brittle note had entered his voice.
“Well, generally speaking, people tend to spill their guts around her.”
“Jesus, Teddy, you’re making me sound like an operator.”
“She’s a master of the pregnant pause, for example. People always feel the need to fill a silence, so they end up saying more than they mean to. And there’s this other tactic: at the end of an interview, she usually goes,
Is there anything else you think I should know?
”
“It’s an honest question,” I said.
“It’s all in the tone—like,
Hey, you can trust me.
But also,
I know there’s something you’re not telling me.
”
“So she manipulates people,” Ravi said.
Teddy shrugged. “All film is manipulated to some degree. It’s a way of cutting closer to the truth.”
“Yes, well. Too close and you get a girl cutting her
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