The Venice of India

Othello is coming to town, the postcard promised with a picture of two actors languid in the early stages of the play. At first, I thought, I'd like to see Othello. I wonder how long it's been? And then I started thinking, when will Othello be obsolete? There are lots of mixed race couples and, depending on which state you're in, those alliances don't cause the same reactions they did decades ago. In addition, they're not illegal anymore, either. Think of that: it used to be illegal to marry who you wanted because of their race. One day we'll look at gay marriage the same way: remember when it was illegal for men to marry men, and women to marry women? Isn't that crazy? we'll say to each other.



Or not. Mr. Hendricks and I are a mixed race couple, and here's the funny thing: we never think of it. Or we are rarely aware that our races are different. Mr. Hendricks is Mr. Hendricks: that is all. Yes, I see that he is lean and graceful and brown-skinned, but these separate attributes fade away and he is more of a gestalt (sorry, I couldn't come up with a better word). We live in a relatively progressive northern metropolitan area, and so we are not so unique. More noticeable is that Mr. Hendricks is thin and I am fat. In fact, the only public places that we notice bold stares are in Indian restaurants from Indian patrons.



And then we went to the homeland in January: the state of Kerala in South India. There are necks that are still sore from all the craning they did at us. There I was, in my full, fat, very white and sweating glory, next to the quiet elegance of my South Indian in-laws and husband. They are all to be commended for their ability to walk in public with me and appear to be completely unaware of the craning necks and unsmiling stares. I found it a lot more challenging not to tell people to fuck off (which I didn't, thank you very much) when they literally stared at me for unseemly amounts of time.



We talked about it after each outing. First, to be fair, there aren't too many American tourists in South India, so I was an anomaly. I can understand that. But here in the States (not a high standard of manners, to be sure), if one is caught staring, a smile usually softens the encounter. This is not so in India. In fact, there is very little smiling between people. Smiling is seen as stupidity. Smiling is reserved only for those you know well. Second, I am a large woman. Again, an understandable anomaly. Third, I am in the company of three Indians, and even though it looks as though we may be family, it is inconceivable that we are.



We went to look at jewelry with my in-laws in Trivandrum, the city in which they live. The shop was formal and it was crowded with people, as all of India is: chairs were set around all of the counters and there were several employees hovering around, each with a very specific duty. We looked at the earrings, and three men behind the counter to the left of us could not take their eyes off of me. The heat and the staring and the discussion in Malayalam (which I do not understand) started to take its toll. Mr. Hendricks tried to calm me down, and I did not want to embarrass my in-laws, but I really wanted to flip those guys off. The man helping us with the earrings engaged Mr. Hendricks by asking him all sorts of questions, and even with the language barrier, I knew they were about me. After something Mr. Hendricks said, the man looked very surprised and repeated his question, as if for confirmation. He looked at Mr. Hendricks and then at me and then again at Mr. Hendricks. We didn't buy any jewelry there.



Kochi, or Cochin, is a city north in Kerala we visited with my in-laws. Also known as 'Jew Town,' the city boasts the oldest synagogue in India, one from 1568. Around the synagogue are shops and the cemetery. Perhaps I had begun to become immune to them, but the stares this time around seemed either less frequent or annoying. In fact, it wasn't the stares that were so bothersome, it was the hawking of trinkets that started to bring me down. The hard sell was on, especially to the American. The sellers were relentless, and I bought far less than I might have if I'd been given a little room, both literally and figuratively.



Mr. Hendricks and I finished our trip in Delhi. We had a tearful goodbye with his parents at the train station, and after a trying ride of forty hours or so, found ourselves in a very nice hotel in the capital city. We ate only at its restaurants, purely out of convenience. In fact, we had three or four meals at one of the restaurants, and were served by the same waiters. On two occasions, we were given separate checks.

"They don't think we're married," Mr. Hendricks said as he signed both of them with our room number.



"What do you mean? We've been here for breakfast twice already!" I said.



"I think they think we're business associates, or maybe we're having an affair," Mr. Hendricks said.



"You've got to be kidding," I said. "This is a five-star hotel. They see Westerners all the time here."



"Yeah, but how many Indians with non-Indians?" he said. "They might see black and white couples, but Indians don't usually marry non-Indians."



That night we left for home. Our driver dropped us at Indira Gandhi International Airport. It was relatively small in size, but packed to the gills with people. I saw a young woman in a uniform who appeared to be directing people and their copious baggage. I approached her with a smile and said, "I'm on a KLM flight to Amsterdam."



"Do you have your ticket?" she said and actually smiled back.



"My husband does," I said as I turned to find Mr. Hendricks. He was behind the man who was behind me.



Her smile and eyes got wider. "He is your husband?"



"Yes."



"And he is Indian?"



"Yeah," I said as Mr. Hendricks showed her our flight confirmation and she looked at us with ill-concealed awe.



That's what was so astounding to all the young men and women in India who got an eyeful of us. They couldn't believe that an Indian man, very like themselves, married an American woman and lived to tell the tale. Personally, I don't think they were jealous of me. No. I think they were jealous of Mr. Hendricks and what appeared as freedom within his family to marry who he pleased. I think they were jealous because he was an Indian living in the States. I think it was hard to imagine such a life of liberty and, at the same time, isolation.



Desdemona didn't have the time to visit the in-laws, did she? Maybe it would have all gone swimmingly, and she would have sailed through the trials with flying colors. Or maybe everyone in Othello's village would have been stupefied that he married this white skinny swan while there were so many more suitable women for him at home. Women of substance, of classic Moorish beauty, of proper childbearing form. We'll never know.



Mr. Hendricks and I aren't the tragic types: I am no young, impetuous daughter, and Mr. Hendricks is no Army general. Othello is supposed to be about jealousy, critics argue: race is secondary. But here in the States, race is never secondary. Here in America, the debate rages on even as we watch our new president and his family in the White House. All about us life is changing, and not in the ways we thought it would. Othello this fall, the postcard says. I wonder what it will mean by then?