Just a poolside conversation

 ‘Madam, I am Indian’, he said, in what certainly amounted to the most profound statement of the obvious I have heard so far this year.   I was at the rooftop pool at the very newly opened Raintree Hotel in Chennai. The pool attendant was, not to mince words, a Dravidian Tamil with skin as dark as dark can possibly be. In fact, particularly as he was facing me with the sun behind him, it was difficult to make out any of his facial features save for the brilliant white smile of his perfect teeth, which had no doubt never seen anything remotely approaching cosmetic dentistry.  Mr pool attendant was bristling with enthusiasm over his new domain and the fact that someone had come to make use of it.  For the past half hour I had been the sole focus of his attention.  In fact, it was really windy on the roof of the hotel and not all that pleasant, but I was loath to disappoint him and leave as soon as I wanted to.   In fact, when I walked out of the lift onto the pool deck and was met with a gale spraying the pool’s contents onto the deck below I commented on the fact that it was rather windy.  “Oh no madam, just a light b

reeze’, he said as he grappled with a chair that had intentions of moving Eastward.

Mr pool attendant went to get me some towels, and about ten minutes later returned with them while I admired the view and gave up on hair control,  however he did not bring them to me immediately.  First he went inside again and emerged with a long cushion for the deck chair – I suspect that they were kept inside so that they did not become airborne. ‘We are having these for your pleasure and comfort madam’, he beamed.  I thanked him and he brought me the towels. “Nandri”, I said  (thank you in Tamil). ‘Oh madam, you are speaking my language, that is very exciting.  So very nice….  But madam – he looked at the sky – there is the sun’.   Ah yes, I thought, that is the intention.  ‘Madam will get burned’.  ‘No’, I said, thinking that I was not going to be there long enough to get burned, ‘I actually want to change colour, like your skin’, I joked.  ‘Oh, madam is speaking my language and liking my skin, but our skins are very different (at this point, he compared his arm to mine) would you like me to rub some oil on you?’  ‘Ah, no thanks’ – I was starting to become a little concerned about intercultural faux pas at this point.  ‘Just your shoulders madam’.  ‘I already have some on’, I lied.   This seemed to stump him and he then just stood and watched me for some time.  I attempted to relax but it’s a little difficult to do so when you can feel somebody watching your every breath.   I am not suggesting for a second that this gentleman fancied me: a fat woman on the wrong side of fifty.  He was just very, very keen about his job.   It was after about the third time I tried to pretend he wasn’t there that I opened my eyes and met his, and the proclamation of his nationality that commenced this memoir.  I wasn’t quite sure where to go with the rest of that attempt at conversation but thankfully, just at that moment, Jon appeared.