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Homes in Mussorie
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9/18/03 Time seems like it’s just sucking the minutes away from me. The days are so regimented that it’s hard to find time to write, despite the urgency of a written journal that’s nagging at my conscience. It seems so long ago in Delhi that I by chance (as always) met yet another wonderful group of tennis partners. Like heat seeking the colder air, wonderful players just seem to come to me during this trip. I had discovered a squash court (aka wall with tiled ground in front of it) at Jawarlahal Nehru stadium by mistake when a rickshaw driver had claimed that the “DLTA behind this, sir”, and dropped me off with an overpriced fair as a parting gift. On that particular day, Thursday, we were preparing to leave Delhi, and I decided to return to the stadium in hopes of getting a solid wall workout, and hitting some serves on the somewhat dilapidated neighboring courts. No sooner had I hit the first few volleys did a group of abnormally large Indian men appear carrying basketballs to a nearby court complex. Soon after, a girl walked by with a tennis bag, and set it down precisely where I had hoped to serve. A boy about her age followed, along with a burly man who proceeded to direct them through a series of cones designed for a plyometric workout. Two more people arrived. Afraid I wouldn’t get any serves in, I slipped onto the adjacent court as soon as they were done and began to serve, but soon I felt inclined to speak with a man who appeared to be a coach (directing his athletes to wipe off the courts with rags and squeegees. We spoke about his coaching philosophy, about the national prowess of his 14-16 year old players, and about my tennis experience, and desire to enter a tournament in India. He allowed my to play with his stud male player, and we hit balls around, warming up until it rained. He was amazing, no surprise considering he had played in the India national tournament, but I was able to feel competitive, and felt rather solid upon retreating for the trees in reaction to the rain. I thought some force of miracle was intervening when the coach asked me if I would be coming back daily, though my spirits sank when I realized we were leaving for the mountains the next day. I left with phone contacts, and a friendly ride home, having met yet another great tennis resource. The level of play I’d run into seemed ridiculous – how did my white…oh…there’s the answer. My skin color seems to cause a whole range of effects here in India. The most prominent of which seemed to be the tennis opportunities, but there was a monetary consequence. I’ve been afflicted with what is known here as the, “white tax”, where by prices triple, or worse, and people regard me as a target for scams, trinkets and the afore mentioned unsubstantiated price inflation. This too colored the tennis experience, as I began to feel as though court prices at the DLTA had a slight case of elephantitus when it came to, “the American guy with the big serve”. With any luck the acquisition of the language, and phasing in of native clothing will help in the caughripoffcaugh department. At first I was worried that maybe there was some mental connection between my appearance and memories of British domination, but the feeling I get is that these two things are not connected. In fact, I came to notice a reminiscence of western domination in a surprising place. On Friday morning I was finally able to play with the co-owner of our guesthouse. He proudly declared that we were going to play on the, “Rolland Garros” surface, and I couldn’t help but look forward to my first experience (and a rare American Experience) on the endangered surface of red clay.
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Paper Information
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Title: Homes in Mussorie
Words: 3161
Rating: None
Pages: 12.6
submitted by: rjk2007
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